by John Zada
It’s another reference to the Little People of the Wuikinuxv and the Bukwus, the little woodsman, of the Heiltsuk tradition.
“But neither of those,” I say, “accurately describes the classic Sasquatch: the big, tall, often dark, hairy animal most often described.”
“Those Sasquatches are the hybrids,” he says. “There are other beings in our traditions, too.”
As I get to know the locals discussions of this sort continue, culminating in a growing feeling, again, that the creatures, whatever their size, color, or shape—whatever their nomenclature—likely exist.
Tempering those stories is my discussion with Peter Mattson, known affectionately to his friends and acquaintances as “the Swede.” Mattson is an eccentric émigré, a ski bum from Europe, who runs the Tweedsmuir Park Lodge and its heli-skiing operation at the head of the valley.
“In all the years I’ve been here, we’ve never seen a trace of them,” he says in his cut-and-dried Scandinavian accent. “And with all the flying that we do, especially taking our backcountry skiers and snowboarders over the mountains in the winter, you’d think we’d have seen tracks in the snow by now. But we haven’t.”
“Ever?”
“Never.”
“Not one track?”
He shakes his head. “Not a track, not a toe-print, not even a hair.”
I’ve slipped back into the dualistic mind-set involving Sasquatch—”exists” versus “doesn’t exist”—out of both habit and desperate hope. At the same time, the metaphorical image of the Sasquatch in the outline of the mountains near Ocean Falls remains alive in me. In quieter moments I allow myself to think about Bigfoots in a more symbolic and philosophical way. And though I’ve considered psychology, in the hope that it would help illuminate either proof or disproof of the creature, I still feel there’s an aspect of our behavior that’s unexamined, having to do with our need to plumb the depths of the unknown.
What is the deepest intent of Bigfoot hunters and investigators? What is my own?
Life is full of unknowns that preoccupy us. We constantly grapple with things we don’t know or can’t see—the blank spots on our conceptual and literal maps: What, if anything, lies around the next corner? Past the edge of the visible universe? Beyond tomorrow? After death?
For the literal questions, we often do our best to actually, directly or indirectly, see for ourselves. Explorers fling themselves into little-known regions. Scientists conduct experiments. Companies and governments employ analysts, consultants, spies. Individually, we might take our question to a private investigator—or a psychic. When an answer is particularly elusive, we make do with guesses: we use our imagination, we concoct hypotheses and stories that jibe with our worldview. We create placeholders until we know for sure. In answering more existential questions, philosophical systems, including religious and cultural cosmologies, fulfill a similar function. They’re connectors, bridges to little-understood or unknowable aspects of life.
In answer to certain mysteries, various cultures have employed pantheons of deities, demigods, and preternatural beings. Christian lore has angels—celestial beings that act as intermediaries between heaven and earth. In Islamic and pre-Islamic Middle Eastern lore, the djinn are intelligent, shape-shifting, and meddlesome essences that harbor a capacity for either good or evil. Elfin- and fairy-type beings (which, like the Thla’thla or Dzonoqua, are given to kidnapping children) are still revered in Celtic cultures. In the countries of Scandinavia, races of little people called Tomte and Nisse are said to roam the countryside. One Norse being, the Hulder or Skogsrå, is a female forest spirit that can lure a man into her subterranean cave, from which he will never emerge. Move in any direction on the world map, and the beliefs, the stories, the lore accrue. At one level these beings represent a direct link—and a kind of proof within the circular logic of belief—that there is a deeper, unexplained mystery in and origin of life and the universe. And that as humans we aren’t alone in this painfully empty cosmos.
Within these precincts of cultural expression, the Sasquatch may find its deepest function and appeal. In First Nations cultures, the creatures associated with Bigfoot, even if they are also flesh-and-blood animals, are imbued with religious and supernatural significance. Like prophets, holy people, or saints, these creatures, auspicious in the extreme, appear to deliver messages, herald events, impart lessons, or dole out justice—in the cause of cosmic equilibrium. They are the subtle, secretive and cunning emissaries from some other reality, which all humans, not just people in traditional cultures, seem to yearn for.
Though Sasquatches on one level embody a kind of primitivism—the “backward” and “uncivilized” qualities that make them characters in bad horror films and goofy commercials—the creatures are gifted with a slate of talents that place them on a level above humans:
Profound physical strength and endurance
Unfathomable stealth and speed
Ability to appear and disappear at will
Hypnotic and fear-inducing projections of gaze and voice
A hyper-symbiotic relationship with nature
Their highly evolved and even magical sleight of hand gives them the appearance of superheroes or demigods. In a manner consistent with higher beings, Sasquatches set themselves apart from humankind. They dwell in out-of-the-way places which are difficult for us to get to and where we don’t belong. Like Greek gods huddling on Olympus, they remain aloof and want little to do with our lot. Like our very own shadows, they move away from us when we pursue them. But they can also appear randomly in our midst. And when they do, as with any deity, the appearance is auspicious in a life-changing way. Ask any eyewitness.
“The basic urge toward mysticism,” the late Anglo-Afghan storyteller and experiential philosopher Idries Shah once wrote, “is never, in the unaltered man, clear enough to be recognized for what it is.”21 The Sasquatch enthusiast, hunter, or scientist will give any number of logical motives as his or her excuse for pursuing the animal. And those may be true. But anyone hooked on Bigfoot is almost surely drawn as well to the phenomenology and magical mystery surrounding the alleged creatures. We could even call this impulse religious—not in the conventional meaning of the word, but more in the pure sense of having a reverential relationship with and attitude toward something sacred, set apart, forbidden.
When I honestly plumb my own motivations, I can see that my fascination stems from the seemingly superhuman implications of the Sasquatch. And because the part of me that likes to believe—and wants to believe—still clings to the idea, I feel driven to physically go out and look.
“Let’s go on an expedition,” I blurt out to Leonard Ellis, who is showing me around the valley for the day.
The cacophony at the crowded Bella Coola farmers market recedes ever so slightly. Leonard stops dead in his tracks and turns to look at me as if I’d just uttered a magical phrase. He breaks into a smile that is almost mischievous.
“What are you thinkin’?” he asks.
“Hike up the Necleetsconnay.”
Leonard becomes pensive. He looks disappointed. “Necleetsconnay will be a heavy bushwhack. Also, lots of bears in there this time of year because of the salmon.”
“But there are bears everywhere right now.”
“Bigger risk in there,” he says. “It’s a narrow valley, so we’ll be squeezed in pretty tight with them. More chances of a run-in.”
I nod, not knowing how to counter that.
“I’d have my gun but … yeah … it’s not the best scenario.”
The conversation ends there. But I can see the gears turning inside Leonard’s head.
“You know, instead of Necleetsconnay we can hike up to my cabin for a few days,” he says, weighing my reaction. “It’s pretty remote. About as remote as you’ll get anywhere around here. It’s a difficult hike even for me, and not something I do with tourists—anything can happen. So you’d have to really be up for it.”
“Where is it?”
I had.
Ralph Edwards was a famous homesteader from North Carolina who in 1913 settled on the shores of Lonesome Lake, deep in the valley of the Atnarko River—a tributary of the Bella Coola. Battling seemingly insurmountable odds, the self-taught woodsman, fisherman, and farmer hacked down a tract of old-growth forest, built a complex of cabins and a farm with electricity, and raised a family there, living in seclusion for decades. Pioneering and self-sufficient, the family survived on knowledge culled from a vast library of how-to books lugged, with everything else, into the wilderness. Ralph is best known for building an airplane and for saving the last population of trumpeter swans, a critically endangered bird species living at the lake, from extinction—for which he was awarded the Order of Canada.*
His exploits were made famous in a 1957 biography, entitled Crusoe of Lonesome Lake, by American Pulitzer Prize–winning writer Leland Stowe. The cabin and property Leonard owns had belonged to Stanley Edwards, Ralph’s son, an eccentric offshoot who had settled and lived a hermit’s life at neighboring Stillwater Lake.
“I bought the property after Stanley was found dead in an outhouse several years ago,” Leonard says. “One of the bridges on the trail to the cabin got washed out in a big flood a few summers back, and I haven’t been down there since. The bridge was just rebuilt. I need to go check on the place.”
My enthusiasm for Leonard’s idea, an otherwise hugely tempting offer, is somehow dampened by my desire to go up the Necleetsconnay.
“Well?” Leonard says, sensing my hesitation. “Are you up for a few days in the bush with the old man?
I smile and reluctantly put aside my other plans. “Let’s do it.”
Plans begin to take shape. But before anything happens, tourists stampede into town and sign up for Leonard’s bear tours. He tells me his remaining free time is being snapped up—and that he’s not sure if, or when, we’ll make it to his cabin.
Frustrated and still wanting to explore the rain forest, I decide to look for a replacement guide. I seek out Clark Hans, the Nuxalk artist who, on my previous visit, had showed me around the confluence of the Necleetsconnay and Bella Coola Rivers. But Clark is away, working on Vancouver Island, and no one knows when he’ll be back.
Unsure of what to do next, I head to the banks of the river on the edge of town. I sit at a picnic table and watch the silt-heavy river coursing like a runaway lava flow. The sky, earlier blue, is covered with dark roiling clouds riding a blustery wind. Dozens of agitated gulls are aloft, circling high over the town.
“Looks like a storm blowing in,” a voice says behind me.
I turn around and see a short, middle-aged man wearing a blue bandanna on his head, beige overalls, and kneehigh brown rubber boots. The muzzle of a rifle sticks out of a canvas bag thrown over his shoulder. He looks like a cross between an early twentieth-century hunter and a beatnik hobo.
“You can tell it’s a storm,” he says, pointing up, “when the birds fly like that.”
We introduce ourselves. The man tells me his name is James Hans.
“Hans? You must be related to Clark,” I say.
“Clark’s my cousin.”
As I tell James more about myself, I remember that Clark had been duck hunting with cousins the day he had his Bigfoot encounter and fled across the river.
“Were you with Clark when he saw a Sasquatch, years ago? He told me the story.”
“Yeah,” he confirms, pulling his bag off his shoulder and placing it on the ground. “We got separated that day, so I didn’t see the Sasquatch. But we all got smoked when we got back to town. Our people think that if you see or come near a Sasquatch, something bad will happen to you. That you’ll get out of your right mind. Our family didn’t want any of us to lose our spirit.”
“Have you ever seen one?” I ask.
“Seen and heard them. Once down the inlet at Taleomy. Another time over here in Piisla. I also seen one on the river near Four Mile, at night, up close, with a flashlight. We came back, and my grandmother smoked us that night too.”
“You must spend a lot of time in the bush,” I say.
“I grew up around Nickle-Sqwanny,” he says, pointing toward the Necleetsconnay valley. “My parents used to carry me around there in a packsack when I was a kid. Now I go there all the time by myself to hunt deer and ducks and go exploring around.”
A rumble of thunder echoes up from the inlet, rising above the sound of the river.
“I’m gonna go before it rains,” James says, reaching for his bag.
“Hold on,” I say. “When are you going out next? Into the bush, I mean?”
“Not sure. I just go when I go. I decide the same day.”
“Could I come along next time? I’m staying at the motel here,” I say, pointing down the road.
James hesitates. He’s on the cusp of saying yes, but then something holds him back. I realize, as I’m sure he does, that he knows absolutely nothing about me.
“Let me think about it,” he says, uncertain, taking a step back.
“I spent time with Clark. He’ll vouch for me if you contact him,” I say, grasping at the opportunity. James deliberates to the first drops of rain.
“Can you swim?
“Swim?”
“Yeah, I’m thinking of drifting the river in my rowboat sometime this week. The water’s pretty rough and cold. In case anything happens, you’ll need to make it quickly to shore.”
“I’m a good enough swimmer.”
“All right,” James says. “I’ll drop by the motel and let you know.”
At the moment it starts to pour, a wooden skiff floats into view on the river. It’s carrying two men untangling nets, likely fishermen, who suddenly freeze and stare at me, as the unceasing torrent carries them downriver into tree cover and out of my field of view.
When I turn to look at James again, he’s gone.
Days later, James and I are driven by his wife fifteen miles up the valley to a gravel side road running to a small tributary of the main river. A billowing drizzle bordering on rain hangs over the length of the valley. James takes the wheel from his wife when we arrive and backs the truck, and the trailer carrying his rowboat, down a steep incline to the creek. I walk down the knoll ahead of the trailer and am instantly throttled by the smell of rotting fish. It is rancid, like the humpback whale breath I inhaled while traveling on Achiever. I see then that the shoreline is littered with the pale, bloated carcasses of spawned-out chum salmon. It looks like the aftermath of a biblical plague.
James and I have become better acquainted since meeting days before. A forty-nine-year-old Nuxalk man, he is married to an archaeologist, is the father of seven kids, and once worked, like Leonard, as a bear-hunting guide. James is gentle and kind, but there’s also an underlying intensity to him. He seems to move back and forth between the present moment and some other place in his awareness—as if he inhabits two worlds simultaneously. His long experience on the land is manifested as fluid ease and confident mastery.
“My family and I sometimes go into the bush to have supper at night,” he told me earlier. “We’ve even walked home in the dark without a flashlight. Some people think I’m pretty nuts doing that. But I was raised not to be afraid of the dark. My dad used to say, ‘If an animal is going to get you, it’s not going to wait until it’s dark out.’“
The drizzle graduates to rain. We push the rowboat into the water and climb in after donning our rain gear. James takes the oars and rows us, through the flotsam of dead salmon, toward the river. We exit the tributary and collide head-on with the rushing Bella Coola River, which sweeps us into its unstoppable trajectory.
“What can I do to help?” I ask, seeing James suddenly strain to control the rowboat.
“Look for logjams and snags,” he says, pulling at the wooden oars. “Especially when we get nearer to tow
n in a few hours.”
I feel a tinge of anxiety upon realizing how vulnerable we are. In spite of the oars, we’re almost totally at the mercy of this powerful river. But my fear is mitigated by the sight of James’s reflexes, deftness, and navigational savvy—and the realization that bucking the flow, through fear or hesitation, can be just as dangerous as the hazards that lie in our path.
Once I relax, a new perspective opens up. The valley and mountains transform. The space becomes vast, virtually a cosmos. I realize I’m experiencing the Bella Coola valley from a wholly new vantage point: its central axis and beating heart—the river itself. Not only am I seeing the valley from within, but by riding the current I’m actually taking part in its fundamental life force: the perpetual movement of water.
That edginess I’d sensed earlier in James now possesses him. He appears lost in a hybrid universe of his trancelike imaginings and the physical world. I too slip into my own hypnotic rhythm, coaxed by the now deceptively disarming flow of the river and the thickly forested slopes that seem to respire magic. Gusts of cold air blowing down from the alpine zone, sudden downpours, and collisions with frenzied salmon are the only interruptions to this dreamlike drifting. And then something really strange happens: I start to lose all sense of bearings, boundaries, markers, direction. I can neither see the town nor imagine it. The road, totally obscured from view, ceases to exist in my mind even as a notion. In fact, all intimations of human presence have vanished, as if they were never there to begin with. The separation between past, present, and future also melts away. I realize that I’m floating down the river in its timeless, eternal form. Seen from its own vantage point, the valley has assumed its true character and scope.
People talk about seeing with “new eyes.” Prior to this river journey, I saw the valley strictly from the perspective of the town and the road—with the rain forest extending away from it as something peripheral. All of this illuminates a heinous flaw in our thinking, the mental parceling and the fragmentation we impose on things; what we know are the nodes, waypoints, and details of the grid—but there’s so much more. And it’s not just the literal, geographical grids but also the figurative ones: the ruts in our minds—the grid of fixed ideas and mental trajectories running from A to B to C. We don’t realize that all the other territory is there—until we stumble upon it, a kind of Noble Beyond.
